


In Awkward Positions

by sous_le_saule



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley reading Aziraphale's desires, First Time, M/M, Smut, Yes I did it, Yoga, but is there a plot, of course I put feelings in there, well it depends if you consider a yoga lesson as a plot, you know me by now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 13:44:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10572510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sous_le_saule/pseuds/sous_le_saule
Summary: Preventing the Apocalypse can be very stressful. Aziraphale offers to teach Crowley the basics of yoga, hoping to help him to relax. But there might be a more effective way to achieve that goal.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my betareader, Not-A-Space-Alien, who patiently corrected my English and made very pertinent suggestions!
> 
> You may find this useful to picture some positions if you're not familiar with yoga: http://www.yogajournal.com

The jingle of the bell on the door makes Crowley start as he enters the bookshop. He sharply closes the door and gives a suspicious look at the street before breathing a sigh of relief. He’s made numerous detours, checking in the rearview mirror of the Bentley to see if somebody was trying to shadow him. Leaning against the door, he realizes that Aziraphale is worriedly staring at him from the desk. Crowley promptly straightens and casually runs a hand through his hair.

“Hi, angel!” His voice sounds all but cool.

“What’s the matter, dear?”

 _What’s the matter?_ Crowley wants to shout _We just averted the Apocalypse—just a little detail, almost nothing, totally insignificant!—and Above and Below must be on our tail and they’ve been testing our nerves for a week_ (Well, Crowley’s at any rate.  Obviously not Mr. What’s-the-matter’s.) _and surely we’re both about to be banned from existence in excruciating pain_ (Maybe Heaven would do it fast and painlessly, but there’s no doubt regarding Hell.) _and we’ve never been in such deep shit, and…_

He eventually lets out a nonchalant “Nothing. I’m fine.  Everything’s perfectly fine.”

Aziraphale slightly frowns. “May I offer you some tea?”

The previous days, Crowley has unsuccessfully tried to drown his anxiety in wine, brandy, ouzo, beer, several cocktails, porto, whisky, vodka, and probably other beverages he doesn’t even remember. If a tea won’t do the trick, it at least won’t increase his hangover.  

They move into the back room. Crowley places a chair in front of the curtain separating the private room from the bookstore so he can keep an eye on it for intruders, then collapses. Aziraphale pours a warm, pleasant-smelling cup of tea in front of him.  He also sets a large plate of biscuits on the table, which made Crowley’s stomach growl.  He’s been unable to eat anything for days. The angel puts the sugar bowl near Crowley, brushing against his back and eliciting a nervous but not totally disagreeable tremor.

Aziraphale looks pointedly at Crowley’s restless leg bouncing up and down.  “Dear, you really should relax,” he says, nibbling on a lemon shortbread.  “I don’t think they’ll punish us.  And if I’m wrong, there’s nothing you can do to prevent it.”

“Oh, thank you, that’s a very _relaxing_ thought!”

“You look exhausted, poor boy, maybe you’d better try to sleep.”

“I can’t. What if they come while I’m sleeping ?”

Aziraphale gives him a sympathetic look. “You could watch those spy movies you’re so fond of.”

“Can’t focus enough,” objects Crowley, somewhat surprised the angel remembers one of his favorite hobbies.

“I don’t know… We could have a walk in the park and feed the ducks…”

“St James is the perfect place for an ambush.”

“Oh dear…” murmurs Aziraphale.

“How ? How can you be so calm?” Crowley cries out, banging his fist on the table and making the cups rattle. He came because he thought Aziraphale’s presence might calm him. But to the contrary, Crowley only finds Aziraphale’s unrelatable composure irritating. Deep down, he knows something else is also getting on his nerves, but he’s unwilling to put his finger on it.

“I do yoga,” answers Aziraphale simply, as if the question hadn’t been rhetorical.

Crowley’s mouth falls open. “You _what_?”

“I do…”

“I heard,” Crowley cuts off. “You, Aziraphale, Principality, Warrior of the Lord, Angel of the Eastern Gate, you _do yoga_?”

“I do. And I don’t see what my resume has to do with it.”

Crowley incredulously shakes his head.

“Actually,” adds Aziraphale, “I think you should try, it’d be good for you.”

“Ha! I’ll be damned if… um.”

“Really, my dear, I can’t let you go in this nervous condition. I’ll show you. I was about to practice anyway.”

“It promises to be an interesting performance,” says the demon, delighted. He settles himself more cozily on the chair, distracted from his fear for a moment.

Aziraphale crosses his arms. “You take part or you leave. I’d be glad to help you, but I’m not doing a show to entertain you.”

Ah, that’s a cruel dilemma! But the prospect of the angel in some weird postures is definitely something Crowley can’t pass up. Or perhaps he only doesn’t want to go.

“All right, I’m in.”

Aziraphale beams. “Then be a dear and help me move the desk, will you? We’ll need room.”

Once done, Aziraphale rolls up the dusty carpet and quickly materializes two gym mats. Not quickly enough to keep Crowley from seeing what was underneath the carpet.

“Are we going to do yoga on your magical circle?” asks the demon, with an accusing gesture towards the mats.

Aziraphale tuts at  _magical_ but reassuringly pats Crowley’s arm. “There’s no larger free space in the bookshop. No candles, no Words. You’ll be perfectly safe. It’s only a chalked circle, after all.”

The demon isn’t entirely convinced, but he has no time for dwelling on it as Aziraphale advises, a foot on the first step of the staircase, “You may want to wear something more comfortable that will let you to move freely. I’ll be right back.”

Crowley takes off his shoes and thoughtfully looks down at his expensive suit. He has no idea what could be appropriate clothes for yoga. He briefly toys with the option of indecently short shorts to surprise the angel, but he decides it wouldn’t be safely compatible with the awkward positions that, as far as he knows, yoga is full of.

He eventually opts for black above-the-knee shorts and a grey t-shirt, both made of a soft, flexible and, needless to say, overpriced fabric. Very pleased with himself, he looks up just when Aziraphale silently comes back down barefoot.

Crowley is speechless.

For a change, Aziraphale’s clothes don’t look like they are straight from the fifties. But he has fallen back on the eighties and anyone who has experienced them (and Crowley _has_ ) could tell it’s far, far worse. Especially when it comes to fitness outfits. Way too flashy. And tight. Admittedly, there’s no tartan, but a neon pink t-shirt cannot be called an improvement. In any case.

Thankfully, Aziraphale is too busy staring at Crowley’s legs (aren’t shorts allowed to do yoga?) to notice his expression. Every demon worthy of the name wouldn’t waste the opportunity to make fun of the angel, but no witty comment pops into Crowley’s mind. _It’s so typical of my silly angel_ is all he can think of, fondly. Moreover, the eighties fashion had some good points: when Aziraphale goes to lock the bookshop door, Crowley gives an appreciative look to his round ass, perfectly highlighted by the close-fitting leggings.

He hears a few words coldly addressed to some presumed aspiring (and failed) customer, then the angel returns and claps once, cheerfully exclaiming, “Here we are, dear!”

 

He removes his glasses then gently takes Crowley’s, and puts them together on the desk. He places himself in front of one of the mats and, with a gesture, invites Crowley to follow suit.

“First, take several deep breathes,” says Aziraphale, setting an example. He casts a side glance to the demon. “Oh, come on, dear, you can do better than that. Through your belly.”

Crowley complies, yet the angel doesn’t seem satisfied. He comes nearer and places a hand on Crowley’s stomach. “I want to feel my hand rise.” He’s so close that, while he’s staring at his palm, warm through the thin fabric, Crowley can smell his blessed impossibly curled hair. He swallows hard.

Aziraphale shakes his head and sighs. “You really need some relaxing poses. You’re all tense.” He steps back to his mat. “Let’s start with the child’s pose. It’s easy and very calming.”

Copying Aziraphale, Crowley kneels on the floor and sits on his heels. He lays his torso down between his thighs and his hands on the floor, palms up. He feels ridiculous.

“Angel, everybody can see us from the street,” he complains in a muffled voice.

“You know the window is too dirty. Could you please stay focused?”

“Wait!”

“What?”

“Did you put a demon-repelling sigil on the door?”

The last thing he wants is to be captured by Hell while wearing shorts and doing yoga.

“Do you realize you’ll be trapped here with me, if I do?” asks Aziraphale with a little smirk.

Crowley obstinately nods. He can live with it.

Aziraphale takes a piece of chalk in the desk drawer and draws a complicated symbol on the door, murmuring words that make Crowley’s arm hair stand up. Then, the angel strikes the pose again.

Twenty seconds. Thirty. Jeez, yoga is so _boring_!

“How long are we going to stay like this?”

Aziraphale sighs heavily. “Until you do your bit.”

Crowley gets the message and keeps his mouth shut. The next minute is one of the longest of his life.

They follow up with the cobra pose. _Bhujangasana,_ pontificates the angel, who adds with an amused smile, “And I expect nothing less than a perfect cobra from my old serpent”.

Said serpent huffs but does his best (snakes’ pride is at stake), mildly distracted by wondering if the  _my_ in Aziraphale’s sentence was or wasn’t a hint.

“Good! Now straighten your arms and get on all fours for a table pose, a S _vanasana_. Ah, I’m sorry, dear boy, but what you’re doing is a cow pose. Don’t arch your back. Nonono, that’s a cat pose, now. You should…”

Aziraphale stands up, then leans towards Crowley and gently pushes to straighten his back, with a hand between his shoulder blades and the other dangerously close to his butt.

Oh, this whole yoga thing is definitely a bad idea.

Crowley’s trying to breathe calmly and ignore the touch of those hands, hoping they will quickly leave before something _really_ embarrassing happens. But they don’t.

“Don’t contract. Think of something enjoyable,” says Aziraphale in a low voice.

That’s precisely what Crowley was avoiding. And everybody knows that trying not to think about something is the best way to think about it.

He whines inwardly. Sometimes, his imagination is a little too fertile for his own good. He’s already half hard and he furiously blushes. _Oh, Somebody._ If Aziraphale notices this, Crowley will undoubtedly be kicked out and he won’t be able to face the angel ever again. And he can’t possibly consider living far from him now, even more than ever.   

“Igotitangel,” he mumbles through clenched teeth.

“Oh. All right. Yes. This is… very good,” says Aziraphale, hastily withdrawing his hands.

 

After two poses Crowley can’t quite remember, since he was absolutely _not_ daydreaming about some other much more pleasurable positions, he finds himself in front of an angel giving him a perfect example of supported shoulderstand ( _Salamba Sarvangasana)_. The Apocalypse may have been prevented, but at some point the world must have entered the Twilight Zone. The spectacle is worth Crowley’s efforts, especially as Aziraphale’s t-shirt has fallen down, revealing his adorable pudgy belly. Before the angel hurriedly tucks in the neon pink traitor, Crowley’s eye is caught by the thin line of blond hair starting from his belly button to disappear under the legging and how would it feel to nuzzle it, following the path until reaching his…

“…ley? Crowley? What are you waiting for?”

Crowley’s saliva goes down the wrong way. When he stops choking, he splutters, ”I’ll pass on this one.” Then he adds, more assertively, ”Actually, I’m giving up. It doesn’t work. I don’t feel relaxed. At all.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I really thought it would help you.” Aziraphale gets back on his feet. “Please, allow me one last try. We could finish with the _Surya Namaskar_ , the sun salutation. It’s a way to celebrate being alive. It’s quite fitting, isn’t it?”

Knowing Aziraphale’s stubbornness, complying is the fastest way to get it over with, so Crowley agrees.

“We start with the mountain pose. Evenly distribute your body weight on both feet.” Aziraphale brings his palms together in front of the heart. Then, he turns them out, sweeps his arms overhead, and looks up. “This is the upward salute, _Urdhva Hastasana_. Now we’re going to do an _Uttanasana_ , which is a standing forward bend. Exhale and fold forward at the hips. Keep the spine straight as long as you can, then let it round into a full forward bend. Bend your knees and gaze at your legs.”

Crowley’s showing as little goodwill as possible and his fingers are barely reaching his toes.

“I thought _you_ were supposed to be the flexible one,” teases Aziraphale, who comes up behind Crowley before the latter can make a move. “Let me help you.”

_Ohnonononono! Not again!_

Aziraphale puts his hands on Crowley’s hips and… What’s _that?_ The demon freezes, still bent forward. Although picking up Aziraphale’s desires isn’t as easy as with humans’ desires, it has already happened, sometimes, when the angel was really craving something and wasn’t vigilant enough to hide it. But his desires were always related to rare books or very mouth-watering chocolate desserts, never to…

Crowley falls flat on his face and vaguely hears Aziraphale’s gasp. _To him?_

He confusedly rearranges himself in a sitting position on the mat and lifts his head.

From this height and due to the tightness of his legging, Aziraphale’s erection is unmistakable. Either the angel has come to the same conclusion or he has followed Crowley’s gaze, because he instantly turns over and retreats towards the desk. He remains there, very silent, his back turned and his neck bright red.

 

Crowley slowly rises and gets closer. He gently places his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders and makes him turn around. The angel resists a little then surrenders, staring at his own feet and still flushed. He hasn’t looked so embarrassed since… Actually, Crowley can’t recall a time the angel has been as embarrassed as he is right now.

“It’s ok,” Crowley says softly. “I’m… ah… fine with it.”

Still looking down, Aziraphale mutters at full speed, “By _I’m fine with it_ , do you mean you’ll be merciful enough to pretend you didn’t see anything or…”

Crowley interrupts him by tenderly kissing his lowered eyelids, then his worried forehead, his temple, his crimson cheek and, finally, almost chastely, his lips. Aziraphale lets out a faint sigh.

“This. I mean this, angel,” whispers Crowley against Aziraphale’s mouth.

The angel looks up and says in a hushed, relieved tone, “That was more explicit, thank you, my dear.”

They stay still, breathing each other’s air, eyes still filled with doubts - _Can it be true? Do you really…? -_ that light, timid touches erase little by little. Shy smiles become broad grins, until the cerulean gaze turns cloudy. Their beams slowly fade. Crowley cups Aziraphale’s face and traces his lips with a thumb. They slightly part and Crowley’s mouth suddenly dries out as the warm breath brushes his finger. Aziraphale closes his eyes, tilts his head and kisses him, one hand on his back to hold him closer and the other playing with the short hair at the nape of his neck, giving him delightful chills. Crowley’s unneeded heartbeats accelerate when the tip of a tongue starts teasing his, fleeting and inviting. A rush of warmth in his belly makes him groan when he slides his tongue into Aziraphale’s mouth, rewarded by an enthusiastic response. He can’t find any word, any comparison that adequately describes Aziraphale’s taste, except that he tastes _exactly_ as Crowley had always imagined he would do. He runs his hands over the angel’s back, hesitantly, but he no longer shrinks from squarely stroking his ass as he feels two hands sneaking under his t-shirt and frantically caressing every inch of skin they can reach. So much for the angelic prudishness.

Aziraphale only briefly breaks the kiss to take Crowley’s t-shirt off and drop it on the floor, greedily glancing at his torso. The haste in which his tongue and his hands return to their previous locations, as if they had found the place they belong and will never leave again, dizzies the demon. _It is real._ Aziraphale’s teeth gently biting Crowley’s lower lip, his grip on the demon’s hips, the torturous friction of the hardness against his through the fabric, all of this is _real_.

 

However it’s like he’s startled out of a dream by an unexpected and resolute shaking of the bookshop door.

“Fuck! Here they are!” he yelps, clenching Aziraphale’s shoulder.

There are worse things than being caught wearing shorts and doing yoga. Like being caught bare-chested in the arms of an angel.

Aziraphale tenses and watches the door, trying to look confident but not entirely succeeding.

The handle door is lowered once. Twice. Then, from the street, a man complains out loud, perhaps in the hope of being heard from the inside of the shop, about outrageous opening hours and respect for the clientele and old times.

“Damn customers!” mutters Aziraphale, relaxing.

They look at each other and laugh uncontrollably. But afterwards, getting back on track seems a little awkward.

“Angel, what we’re about to do is… ah…”

“… something we should have done a long time ago,” affirms Aziraphale. “Don’t you think?”

“Yeah, probably,” says Crowley with a smirk. “But what I mean is… I think you should know that… I… it’s not… only for sex.” _Ah, bloody understatements! As stupid as that « just enough of a bastard to be worth liking »._

“Oh, dear.” With a fond smile, Aziraphale puts a hand on Crowley’s cheek. “Were you worried I could misunderstand this for lust? Aw, you’re so…” He leaves the sentence unfinished, probably not to embarrass the demon. “You know the same goes for me, right ?”

Crowley nods, even though until now he’d only hoped so. An overexcited little voice begins to euphorically sing nonsenses in his head.

“Yet,” Aziraphale adds maliciously, “I must confess I’ve been wondering for a long time if you were _really_ able to do weird things with your tongue.”

Crowley stares at him in astonishment.

“How the hell did you know that?”

“You talk too much when you’re drunk.”

“I certainly wasn’t referring to that specific context!”

“No,” concedes the amused angel. “As I recall, it was about cherry stems or something like that. But…” He tantalizingly runs a finger over Crowley’s chest. “… it didn’t prevent me from thinking about some other interesting applications.”

“Oh. And so… your verdict?” asks the demon, hoping he sounds smug instead of looking for validation.

“I’m not disappointed… so far.”

The new image fleetingly perceived by Crowley both turns him on and stuns him. He can’t help exclaiming, “Are you allowed to desire such things? I mean, you’re an angel and… ”

“Crowley,” snaps Aziraphale, “first, I’d like you to stop reading my mind. It’s rude. Second, I know you’re fond of theological discussions but do you really think this is the right time?”

To emphasize his point, he moves his hand lower and rubs Crowley’s cock through his shorts.

“Mmmhmaybe not,” admits the demon.

“But,” says Aziraphale, still teasing him, “if the question is nagging at you… I guess if someone had found fault with that, I’d have been told off by now, since I’ve been thinking about it… for… ages.”

“I better be good then,” banters Crowley with a too high-pitched giggle.  

“My dear, I certainly don’t want to stress you out more than you already are. So-”

“Ha! Why would I be stress-”

“ _So_ maybe, for now… we could just find out what I can do with _my_ tongue…” 

Ah well, sometimes, it’s best to swallow your pride.

The angel buries his face in Crowley’s neck and inhales deeply. Light kisses become licks and open-mouthed kisses and some barely restrained bites on his shoulder, collarbones, nipples, stomach, until Aziraphale is kneeling in front of him and nuzzling his clothed erection, that grows even harder. Crowley leans against the desk, breathing heavily. Aziraphale makes eye contact, his pupils dilated, then he pulls the shorts and pants down, evidently delighted with what he sees. As though mesmerized, he tentatively brings his mouth closer and licks the demon’s length, making it twitch. The reaction puts a gleam in Aziraphale’s eye. Nothing could force Crowley to avert his gaze from the angelic soft - and oh so respectable - lips while they deliberately slide down along his shaft.

He lets out an embarrassing whimper.

One doesn’t live in a human body for 6000 years without trying a thing or two on themselves, but Crowley had always found it pointless. He’s now realizing it has been a poor preamble to the heat of this mouth around him, the pressure of stroking tongue and lips, the firm grip at the base of his cock, the fervent humming as Aziraphale is hungrily devouring him.

He hazily wonders if the angel would mind having his hair stroked during this, but his fingers have fewer scruples and slip of their own accord into the blond curls. His hips, probably envious of that freedom, jerk without his consent. He has no idea if there’s a better way to do it, but Aziraphale’s ardor is sufficient by itself to push him towards the edge, far too fast.

“Angel!” he gasps. “Take it slow, I’m… ah, stop, stop!”

Since Aziraphale doesn’t seem inclined to break off his ministration, Crowley hastily stammers, “I need…you… What you wanted… during yoga… I want it too.” 

Aziraphale freezes instantly, with a needy sound that vibrates against Crowley’s flesh and is nearly the final blow. He releases him, a combination of regret and renewed thirst passing through his eyes. He stands up, reeling like he’s tipsy, and casts an uncertain look at the demon, who slowly blinks in reiterated assent.

Oh, Crowley wants it so badly that struggling with the hideous, clingy outfit seems an unbearable setback. He’s about to give a fair warning to the angel and make it vanish into thin air, but Aziraphale beats him to it with an impatient snap of the fingers and finds himself as naked as in Eden, though with a noticeable difference.

His skin welcomes the touch with a shiver, and Crowley’s hands have the urge to map each uncharted area of this body, all curves and dunes, so perfectly made for them. Contrasting to his true essence, Aziraphale’s scent is oddly male, both comforting and arousing – as if Crowley needed more.

The angel feverishly returns the caresses, his gaze following his own hands as if they were curious and fascinating animals. Crowley figures out why when he witnesses the minuscule, ephemeral, opalescent scales that travel on his skin under Aziraphale’s touches.

“Oh… sorry. I’m afraid I’m… a bit losing control,” he confesses with a flustered chuckle. “’l'll…uh… try to fix that.”

“Don’t,” whispers Aziraphale near his ear, squirming against him as evidence he’s far from bothered by it.

He stifles a low grunt into a kiss when Crowley’s fingers wrap around him for a few experimental strokes.

It’s strange to taste himself on Aziraphale’s lips. But all of this is strange, actually. So human. Human, the offering of their bodies to mean something else entirely. Human, the way they trust each other to the point of exposing themselves in such a position of weakness, naked, desperately needing, wanting, and yet caring. Because of course – to hell with what he’s supposed to be – of course, Crowley cares.

His hand has found the right pace and his angel looks so damn good like that. Aziraphale’s pleasure is as delectable as his own, in a completely different way. Now, he understands why the angel was reluctant to let him go. It’s a sweet, intoxicating power to elicit such exquisite moans and abandoned motions from the being you love.

It’s Aziraphale’s turn to beg for mercy, as he seems unable to cease thrusting into the tight clasp encircling him, one hand holding onto Crowley’s hip for dear life, the other one using the desk for support.       

The demon forces himself to stop. There’s more. Something that has been dancing around them for years and years, unspoken, denied and yet ever-present. He aspires to give Aziraphale what he desires the most, what came to his not-so-angelic mind in the middle of the sun salutation - and it will be a far better way to celebrate being alive, in Crowley’s opinion.

 

Mouth on mouth, they clumsily step back from the desk and let themselves fall on a mat.

The annoying thought of the chalked circle momentarily distracts Crowley, but Aziraphale has already climbed onto him, all but gracefully, and his face above him, his weight on his body suddenly bring back the memory of a fight they had eons ago, near Jerusalem, for some obscure reason Crowley doesn’t care to recall. The furious angel had pinned him on the ground before properly smiting him. Crowley’s spine tingles deliciously.

Aziraphale is no less disheveled, flushed and panting like he was that day. But his gaze is heavier and he’s looking at Crowley like the demon has never seen him looking at anyone or anything. _Oh_ , he could fall in love with him right now, if he hadn’t already been falling for so long, so easily and so imperceptibly he couldn’t pinpoint a day or a place.

He silently implores someone, _anyone_ , not to let him ruin the moment by making a fool of himself as he shoves into Aziraphale’s hand the bottle of lube he has just materialized with a shaking gesture. The angel peeks at it, looking as unsure as Crowley, who’s somehow grateful for that.

“I hope you’re not expecting another kind of acrobatic position,” the demon teases in attempt to dispel the awkwardness. “I don’t feel I’m in condition for that.”

Aziraphale gives a wry smile. “Then I’ll test your flexibility next time.” He shifts to kneel between Crowley’s legs, glances back at the bottle and resolutely opens it.

The sensation of a finger sliding inside of him is so alien that Crowley can’t help tensing. Aziraphale watches his reactions with a concerned look on his face. He leans forward and trails kisses, surprisingly gentle and patient from someone who’s so hard, on Crowley’s chest and belly, while beginning to carefully move his finger. Taking the second one is easier. Aziraphale straightens, a faint pleased smile replacing his concentrated expression at his lover’s moan and throbbing cock.

Soon, the blue eyes convey a question that an eager twitch of Crowley’s hips answers.

A long, lost whine reverberates against the old books when Aziraphale eases into him. Crowley’s not sure from whom it comes.

They take a little time to adjust, their gaze locked. The muffled sounds of the street are distant, too weak to burst the timeless bubble that the bookshop has become.

Aziraphale starts to thrust, slowly first, but growing bolder as Crowley’s hands on his lower back urge him to intensify his moves. The demon slightly brings his hips up. Pleasure arises from a deep spot and pours into him in waves, stronger and stronger. He doesn’t even try to restrain his groans, since the angel seems to really enjoy them. A little too much, maybe. Aziraphale swears loudly and suddenly pauses, biting his own lip hard and looking away for the first time, as if the mere sight of Crowley would take him too far. Almost nothing, a single sinuous motion and Crowley could… He resists the temptation. He wishes Aziraphale could stay inside him and continue to make him feel whole until the next End of the World.  

A few heartbeats and Aziraphale’s eyes, shortly apologetic, are back into his. Crowley raises his head to kiss him. Cautious back and forth movements quickly turn into vigorous and unbridled pounding. Crowley’s hands are convulsively searching for something to hold on to. His nails claw the mat under him.

Incoherent mumbling escape Aziraphale’s mouth, in an age-old language Crowley recalls they spoke millennia ago, but for now there’s no way he could put a name to it. Ecstasy blurs the fluttering eyes Aziraphale’s struggling to keep open, and if it’s not the most beautiful thing the demon has ever seen…

The waves become increasingly intense, overwhelming. Tension spreads to his whole body. It’s a too tight string on the verge of breaking, producing a magnificent but unsustainable music note.

They can’t possibly make it last. It’s too much. And not enough at the same time. Crowley just needs - just… He reaches for his neglected cock but Aziraphale grabs it first, although their position doesn’t make it easy. “Let… let me… please…” the angel gasps, trembling.  It’s obviously difficult to synchronize with the rhythm he was already failing to keep under control. But a couple of clumsy strokes are enough.

The string snaps. Crowley’s spine arches. It feels sticky and glorious. Then his mind switches off while the echo of the note slowly dies.

 

Blackness is just beginning to fade when Aziraphale releases inside of him, his mouth open on a silent shout. He breathlessly collapses onto Crowley, who’s shuddering and trying to focus, blood pulsating at his temples. In the hollow of his neck, Aziraphale’s erratic breath gradually calms down. A muffled exhausted laugh, a light kiss, and he rolls off him.

He’s sweat-damped and he heavily blinks a few times before leaning on his elbow and lovingly staring at Crowley. The latter frowns at the teeth marks on the angel’s shoulder. He thoughtfully traces it with his forefinger. He’s about to heal it but Aziraphale slowly shakes his head.

“So was it…” Crowley is surprised at his own hoarse voice. “Was it good for you?”

Aziraphale snorts. “You and your eternal understatements!”

Crowley returns his wide smile, then stretches in postcoital bliss.

“After all, you were right about yoga. I feel significantly more relaxed.”


End file.
